


Life Lived Like a Mentos Commercial

by Mallory Klohn (malloryklohn)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-03
Updated: 2009-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 04:08:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malloryklohn/pseuds/Mallory%20Klohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For reasons which are never remotely explained, Jim is forced to relive the same shitty day over... and over... and over!  Till he finally gets it right and is rewarded with Blair's favours.  Based on the fandom you might think I mean Blair finally cleans the oven, but no: it's sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life Lived Like a Mentos Commercial

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I wrote this for the Save Our Sentinel auction, the prompt being "Groundhog Day," but I can't find any corroborating evidence, and it did not in fact Save Our Sentinel anyhow, and so.

Life Lived Like a Mentos Commercial

by  
Mallory Klohn

####   
MONDAY

  
Jim's day began in much the same fashion as they always did: at exactly  
5:30 am, his alarm clock sounded. It was a complicated machine, equipped  
to play whatever early morning music Jim had on cassette that week. Though  
Blair was more than happy to prepare for the day's events to a soundtrack  
of some guy with a monobrow screaming about how his girlfriend was a "skanky  
bitch whore", Jim preferred a mellower accompaniment, be it Eric Clapton,  
Paul Simon, or Patti Smith. This Monday morning, for example, Jim woke  
to Peter Gabriel's _Sledgehammer_. Stretching extravagantly, he rolled  
out of bed and headed downstairs for an early morning preventive cleaning.  
His theory-- as yet unproven-- was that, like flu shots, he could save  
his home from certain death if only he went that extra mile before the  
dreaded Sandburg Disease hit the air supply. Odds were, the place would  
be demolished before the last bagel was toasted anyway, but Jim was prepared  
to make the effort.

Quickly, quietly, methodically, Jim cleaned, until the last water spot  
disappeared from his kitchen spigot, until the last scuff mark on his linoleum  
was eradicated. Pillows fluffed, crumbs vacuumed, mirrors buffed, the loft  
shone once again, however temporarily. One day, Jim hoped, Blair would  
understand that-- like money-- cleanliness wasn't just magically imported  
into his life. He would see that Hygiene and Order were things to be worked  
at, not two of the Muses. Then-- and only then-- would Jim sleep soundly  
again.

He was about to quickly, quietly, and methodically use both his and  
Blair's supplies of the hot water when Blair's own alarm sounded. Jim froze.  
_Busted_.  
Before he could recover, Blair exploded out of his bedroom, hair and terry  
cloth flying around him. Jim hit the wall with a thud as Blair shoved past  
him, muttering "late, late, _late_" under his breath before disappearing  
into the bathroom. The detective blinked. It had taken less than fifteen  
seconds, an attack as quick-- and as brutal-- as the back-alley mugging  
of a senior citizen on Welfare Wednesday. And Jim was left just as stunned  
and helpless, a cold shower his certain reward for all his hard work. Well,  
that and a bathroom that looked as though it had been used to hose off  
some circus animals.

In a perfect world, he and Blair could solve this problem by showering  
together. Jim snorted. In a perfect world, they could solve any number  
of problems by doing any number of things together. That most of those  
things involved a significant amount of gratuitous nudity was beside the  
point. In a perfect world, Blair would have been up as long as Jim had  
been, either helping him clean or reclining on the sofa, naked, like Jim's  
own personal carrot. In a perfect world, Blair would only be late now because  
he'd been up all night, helping Jim put the U back in "Kama Sutra." The  
reality, of course, was that Jim's world was far from perfect. Some might  
even have said it was seriously flawed. As if on cue, Exhibit A erupted  
from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, not even slowing down as he tossed  
Jim a tired grin, snagged his keys from the basket and a banana from a  
bowl on the counter, and ran out the door.

The detective shook his head. "They never call, they never write..."  
Grimacing at the thought of the wreckage that lay ahead, he trudged toward  
the bathroom. The totality of the destruction Blair had wrought put the  
detective's fears to shame. The shower curtain had been half-torn from  
the rod, Jim's "Irish Spring" soap was in the toilet, and the only towel  
that wasn't lying in a crumpled heap by the window was sitting, still folded,  
in a pool of water on the floor. And the sink... the sink! The entire bowl  
was covered in a fine layer of shaving cream and beard stuff. Jim's expression  
of pure horror was reflected back at him through a little patch on the  
mirror where Blair had wiped away the condensation. He couldn't have insulted  
Jim more if he'd scrawled **FUCK YOU JIM** on it instead.

"He did it to get my attention," Jim muttered. "He did it to get my  
attention." Looking away from the sink, Jim slumped on the toilet seat,  
burying his face in his hands. "Aw, who the hell am I kidding? He did it  
because he's a pig. He'd dry his socks in the microwave if he didn't think  
I'd kill him for it."

With a heartfelt moan, Jim weighed his options. He could take the time  
to clean up before heading into the precinct, but he doubted "You should  
have seen the _sink_, Simon!" was going to wash with his boss. He  
could leave the mess as it stood, and spend the entire day brooding about  
it, knowing that no matter what else happened, be it paperwork, gunplay,  
or arson, that unholy mess in the bathroom would still be there when he  
got home-- assuming he survived. He could drive down to the U and see what  
he could do about getting charged with felony manslaughter-- and god knew  
Simon would probably be more lenient if Jim explained he was late because  
he'd had to beat the shit out of his partner-- but again, it just wasn't  
practical. And he'd already squandered half his shaving time griping about  
it. Unwrapping a fresh bar of soap, Jim took one look at the ruined shower  
curtain, shuddered, and started a bath.  
   
 

*** *** ***

"Hey, Jim. TNT run that _Miami Vice_ marathon again last night  
or something?"

Jim rounded on Argent, spilling a little of his coffee. "Unless you'd  
like to explain to emergency how you got that donut shoved up your ass,  
I suggest you think carefully before you speak again."

Argent held his hands up. "Hey, don't hurt me, I give to Farm Aid."

"Just... go... away."

The detective dug in his pocket and handed Jim a dollar. "There you  
go, buddy. Next one's on me," he said, disappearing as quickly as he'd  
come.

"Goddamned Robbery pin-head," Jim muttered. Scanning the area for predators,  
he slunk down the hallway and into the squad room, head down, hands steady.  
He felt grimy without a shave, always had. All hyper-sensitive skin considerations  
aside, he knew it was impossible for him to be feeling each individual  
hair growing on his face, but now that he'd drawn attention to himself,  
he felt like one of the little men from the Play-Doh barber shop. He was  
just about to settle in his chair when the next attack hit.

"I'll be damned," Brown said from across the room. "It's the Marlboro  
man."

"No way," Rafe called back. "That... is the Man With No Name."

Jim sipped his coffee carefully. "Are you done?"

"If he dressed in black, he could be The Punisher."

"If he hears one more word out of either of you," Jim said evenly, "He  
could be the last thing you see before you go back to hell, where you belong."

"Woo-hoo," Rafe grinned, "Sandburg's been talking about putting you  
on an all-decaf diet, but I never thought he'd be stupid enough to do actually  
do it."

Jim was silent.

Brown approached him cautiously. "I think you look kind of..." Jim pinned  
him with a look. "Shit, we've got to get going," he said, looking at his  
watch. "We've got that..."

"That thing," Rafe said, nodding gravely.

"Gentlemen," Jim murmured when his friends were almost gone. They turned  
back, wearing identical expressions of dread. "Don't forget to check your  
brake line. You never know when one of those babies is gonna fail."

After they'd gone, Jim eyed the massive stack of files in his box warily.  
For the first time in his life, he found himself wishing somebody would  
just go ahead and die, in as suspicious a fashion as possible. If he spent  
the day filling out forms and filing reports, his hand was going to be  
bent into a hideous claw by five, and there was no way he'd be able to  
maim Blair like that. And that was his beacon, his shining light, the only  
thing he had to look forward to. He could see how his day would unfold  
as surely as if he'd consulted JoJo's Psychic Alliance on his way to work.  
The world was full of masochists, and every damned one of them was going  
to tempt fate by going out of their way to aggravate him. The bathroom  
fiasco wasn't an isolated incident, it was a harbinger of things to come.

"Ellison." Simon stalked across the squad room. "You too good to answer  
your cell these days, or what?"

Jim blinked. "Shit." A quick pat-down confirmed what he already knew.  
"I must have forgotten it," he bit out. "I ran a little late this morning."  
"Did you happen to remember your gun, detective, or am I going to have  
to send you home with a note for your mother?"

"I've got it," he said, scrubbing his face. "Shit."

"What's with you, Jim? You look--"

"I don't want to talk about it. What have you got for me?"

"Sergeant Morrison is out with the flu," Simon announced, giving Jim  
a significant look.

"Who the hell is Sergeant Morrison?"

"She's in Robbery, just received a commendation for bravery, drives  
a Miata-- look, all you need to know is she was supposed to do the Safety  
Dog demo today."

"Excuse me?"

"Safety... Dog." He pointed across the room, where a giant poster depicting  
Safety Dog and the motto "Safety Dog Leads the Attack on Crack" could be  
seen.

Jim swallowed. "What... what does this have to do with me?"

"You don't have anything in the hopper right now."

"Neither does Anderson."

"I sent him out on a domestic an hour ago."

"Waterman?"

"He's on a homicide with Carroll. Look, Jim, you know I wouldn't ask  
you if I had somebody else."

"Safety Dog," he muttered. "I'm never going to hear the end of it."

"Just be grateful I don't make you wear the costume," Simon smirked.  
"You look like a thug."

"If I'm not wearing it, then who..."

"Ready to go?" Argent rounded the corner, carrying the Safety Dog head  
in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.

Jim closed his eyes, his entire being wracked with agony. "This can't  
be happening."

"Did you _read_ the handbook that came with this thing?" Argent  
asked. "No swearing. No obscene gestures."

"That must be quite a letdown."

"You're telling _me_. I don't mind wearing this getup, as long  
as I can, like, make the Secret Devil Sign, or flip somebody off."

"In a kindergarten class?" Jim gave Simon an imploring look, but the  
Captain had taken advantage of Jim's distraction to make good his escape.  
"Captain!"

"I'm a busy man, Jim."

"Did you ever see _Old Yeller_?"

"Don't even think about it, Detective."

"I just want to say that this is--"

"Ellison, get off your bony ass and go tell some goddamned kids they  
shouldn't talk to strangers."

"Unless they're wearing dog costumes," Argent said.

Simon glared at the pair of them and stalked into his office.

Jim sighed heavily and looked up at Argent. "Are you ready, or do you  
need to pack some more jelly rolls?"

"I should load up on water, now that you mention it. I'm only supposed  
to be in this thing for twenty minutes at a time, and we're going to be  
at it all day."

"Whatever," Jim grumbled. "I'll meet you in the parking garage."  
   
 

*** *** ***

By mid-afternoon, Jim was willing to make good on his _Old Yeller_

threat and put Argent out of his misery before he became a danger to others.  
It had taken the detective a good three hours to put his finger on what  
bugged him about the guy, but when he had, there was no doubt in his mind.  
It was as if Satan had created a second Sandburg, but this time around,  
he'd left out the redeeming qualities and dumped about three tons of Super  
Gro on the things that made him most aggravating. Where Blair was impudent,  
Argent was obnoxious. Where Blair was irreverent, Argent was openly blasphemous.  
_Where  
Blair is sexy, Argent is sleazy_. There was no end to the potential  
comparisons between the two of them, but by God, Jim was looking for one.

Blair talked enough for three normal people, and he certainly took the  
scenic route, but he did eventually get to his destination. Argent, on  
the other hand--

"So..."

Jim glared at Argent. "So what?"

 You live with Blair."

"And?"

"How do you like it?"

"He's been with me for almost three years," Jim said by way of reply.

"Huh." Argent was blessedly silent for a moment, but then: "He's not  
big on commitment, hey?"

Jim frowned. "He's committed to Starbucks."

"You know what I mean. Every time I see his notebook, it's got somebody  
else's name all over it."

"You've been snooping on my desk?"

"No! Well, _occasionally_, but--"

 

  
"Well, don't. I don't know how that works on your planet, but--"

"Is he seeing anyone now?"

"Why, you looking for a date?" Jim snapped.

Argent flushed and turned to stare out the window. "No," he said finally.

"Well, you're barking up the wrong tree on that one, Scooby. Blair's  
not into boys."

Argent gaped at him.

"What?"

"Never mind."

"If you've got something to say, you might as well--"

"Pull over at that Wonder Burger, man. I am _starving_."

 

  
"If you think I'm going inside with you--"

"Aw, Christ, Ellison, what difference is it going to make now? You've already  
warped half of today's youth with me. The least you can do is help me eat  
my salad."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Nobody goes to Wonder Burger for a _salad_,  
Argent."

"Come on. You're hungry, too. You know you are."

Jim finally relented, only tugging a _little_ too hard when he  
was obligated to help Argent out of the van. The younger man led the way  
into the restaurant, his Safety Dog head left in the van, and Jim couldn't  
help but wonder how many of the aforementioned warped children would witness  
the headless dog scarfing a chicken salad and bandying about the f word  
over lunch with the 'rents. He squinted up at the menu board with barely  
concealed passion.

"What do you want?" he snarled. "Let me guess-- ham and cheese salad,  
and what, Diet Coke?"

"Iced tea."

"Riiight." Just as Jim was about to move to the head of the line, he  
heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver being cocked. "Get down," he  
muttered.

"What?"

"All right," somebody screamed from the back of the restaurant, "nobody  
move, this is a robbery!"

"Of course it is," Jim sighed.  


*** *** ***

"So then," Argent gushed, "Jim gets up off the floor, and he looks this  
freak right in the eye."

"What did you say?" Brown asked Jim.

"It's not important," he hedged.

"Important? It's fucking _classic_, man! He says 'look, dickhead,  
I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I've just ruined my favorite shirt. If you don't  
give me that fucking gun _right now_, somebody's going to get hurt,  
and it's probably gonna be you.'"

"Woo-hoo! Jim! Looks like I was wrong about that Man With No Name thing.  
We're looking at Dirty Harry, here."

"Go away," Jim pleaded. "I have work to do. Legitimate police work,"  
he added louder, casting a glance at Simon's office.

"Come on, guys. That wasn't even the end of it," Argent crowed, dragging  
Jim's friends away.

Jim buried his face in his hands. _How long? How long will it be before  
they're calling me Rambo McDonald?_ And that wasn't even the worst of  
it. When Sandburg found out he'd eaten lunch at Wonder Burger, his life  
wouldn't be worth his glove compartment full of gas station coupons. Of  
course, to be absolutely correct, he'd only eaten lunch _near _Wonder  
Burger, after the shootout, the fistfight, and the arrest, but Blair wasn't  
going to see the senseless violence or the heroics. He was only going to  
see the implied "May Contain" sign over the door. And when that happened...

For the second time that day, Jim spread paperwork out on his desk with  
a heavy heart. There was no question in his mind that every horrifying  
event of his future would be measured for terror against the Safety Dog  
incident, but that didn't lessen his pain in the present. Simon had been  
right, though. The only thing that could possibly have made his day worse  
than it had been would have been if _he'd_ been forced to wear the  
Safety Dog costume.

He was halfway through his statement from the Wonder Burger bust when  
he stopped, blinked, and looked up, a smile already in place. Somewhere  
in the building, Blair was annoying someone. Jim knew it. And it was only  
a matter of time before he was the recipient of Blair's... charms. By this  
point, the ruined bathroom was the least of the detective's concerns. All  
he cared about was that Blair was coming to see him. It was like getting  
a tax refund. It was like the sun on his back, or a favorite movie on the  
late show. That it happened regularly in no way lessened the impact.

Jim's guide rounded the corner in Full-On Sandburg Rant Mode, actually  
bumping into the detective's desk when he came to a halt. "Jim! You'll  
never guess what happened!"

"What?"

"Somebody shot Celine Dion!"

"Why?"

"_Because You Loved Me_," Argent said, appearing behind Blair.

_Ah_,  
Jim thought. _It's like finding out a favorite movie is on the late show,  
only, it's been edited for language and content_.

"Hey!" Blair cried happily. "Mike! That's pretty sexy, man," he said,  
gesturing at the Safety Dog costume.

"Why are you still wearing that?" Jim complained.

"Listen, Blair, you got a minute?"

"How about it, Jim, you're not ready to go yet, are you?"

Jim gave him an incredulous look. "Sandburg," he said tiredly, "I'm  
just getting started."

"All right, man, see you in a few." With that, he left Jim in Paperwork  
Valhalla and bounced out of the squad room with Argent.

"I hate you so much," Jim muttered.

He'd been chipping away steadily at his mound of paper for better than  
an hour when he finally noticed that Blair hadn't come back. _What is  
a minute in dog years, anyway?_ It didn't really matter. He'd already  
had the day from hell, and he was damned if he'd have the night from hell  
right along with it. Sandburg himself was responsible for a great deal  
of Jim's current misery. If nothing else, he had a moral responsibility  
to do the rest of Jim's paperwork while the detective played solitaire.

Rising painfully, Jim limped out of the squad room, already scanning  
the building for some trace of his guide. _Little bastard probably went  
to a movie_. With this in mind, he picked up his pace, interrogating  
everyone he saw as to Blair's whereabouts. By the time the third person  
said "He's in the Witness Protection Program, if he has any sense," Jim  
was frustrated to the point of homicide. He could have finished another  
quarter of his work in the time it had taken him to dig up nothing more  
than a cavalcade of wiseguys.

He was about to give up his search and plan the bombing of Blair's car  
when he heard it: a laugh, as distinctive and unique to Jim as a fingerprint.  
Only one man on the planet laughed like that, and before much longer, not  
even he would do so. Jim followed the sound of that voice, growing angrier  
with every step. It was bad enough that Blair had done a runner and left  
Jim with enough paperwork to cripple a man half his age. Worse that he'd  
gone off with Argent, who was certainly the most annoying person Jim had  
ever seen since Susan Powter stopped the insanity. Worst of all, though,  
was the change in Blair's voice, every trace of laughter erased from his  
voice as he moaned words Jim had hoped never to hear Blair speak to anyone  
but him:

"..."

In all fairness, no words were actually spoken. The general idea was  
clear enough, however. Blair had bashed around any number of theories as  
to why Jim strictly forbade any form of sexual activity in his home. The  
early favorite had been a certain squeamishness on Jim's part when it came  
to things like socks on doorknobs and shoes in the hallway. It had also  
been suggested that Jim was just jealous of all the action Blair got, action  
Jim had suspected was somewhat overblown, before this very moment. The  
truth was a lot less complicated, and less unflattering. When it came to  
Kinky Anthropologist Sex, Jim wanted no part of it as long as he remained  
no part of it. He didn't want to hear it, he certainly didn't want to see  
it, and he didn't want to drink his morning coffee, thinking about it,  
and trying to tune out suspicious squeals emanating from his guide's bedroom.  
No. Nada. Niet.

Waves of revulsion washed over Jim as he stood there, panic mounting.  
His hearing was dialed only slightly higher than average; if he could hear  
Blair and his _special friend_ from God alone knew where, then whoever  
was remotely near Blair's actual trysting spot was certainly getting an  
earful. He was torn. But it was more than that, he was stretched naked  
on the rack in high summer, slathered in baby oil. He wanted to get as  
far away from Blair's pleading, purring voice as possible. He wanted to  
put a stop to the whole thing before somebody decided to give the Mayor  
a tour of the building. He wanted to bring the Mayor there himself. He  
wanted to whale the tar out of whoever Blair was with. He wanted to join  
them.

In the end, cold-blooded logic won the day. If he let things run their  
course, Blair _was_ going to be caught, with or without Jim's interference.  
For reasons he preferred not to dwell on, Jim himself had whiled away more  
than one frustrating evening looking for somewhere, _anywhere_ within  
the Cascade Police Department offices that wasn't already occupied by some  
joker with a cup of coffee and too much time on his hands, and people often  
did what they could to avoid getting anywhere _near_ Jim. _Blair_

could pack a room if he offered to head a discussion on "Potatoes I Have  
Eaten." As things stood, there was every chance Jim would have to intercept  
more than one bootleg recording of this event come morning. From a purely  
detached point of view, the facts were that Blair was going to get caught,  
and Jim needed him. Period.

Listening carefully, he managed to place Blair and his unidentified  
molester in the evidence room. _Isn't this charming? I've got Demon Blair  
saying 'You can do it, man' in the back of my head, and I've got Kinky  
Anthropologist Blair doing... Christ, I don't know who he's doing..._  
Jim strode toward the elevator, fuming. _God gave me heightened senses  
so I can listen to my best friend act out 'The Best of Deliverance'  
from a distance of roughly ten thousand fe_et.

By the time Jim reached the evidence room, he was ready to throw open  
the door and commit random acts of violence. _Rocky had come/equipped  
with a gun/to shoot out the legs of his rival..._ This close to the  
action, Jim could hear nothing but Blair's cries and the wet slap of flesh  
against flesh, a sound Jim had never before found this disgusting.

_Lil and her man/who called himself Dan/were in the next room at the  
hoedown/Rocky burst in/grinning a grin/and said "Danny Boy, this is a showdown."_  
Jim tried the doorknob and found it unlocked, much to his indignation.  
Opening the door, he got a perfectly framed view of Blair bent over one  
long table, naked and gasping, his head held back by a familiar hand tangled  
in his hair. The mouth attached to his guide's neck was familiar, too,  
as was the body attached to it, rutting against Blair and not quite divested  
of the Safety Dog costume.  


Jesus, Mary and Joseph havin' drinks at the Hilton...

  
 

 

Jim stood in the doorway, utterly stupefied. Time could stop, nations  
could crumble, and still he would be there, the world's least titillated  
voyeur. He might have stayed there through mutual orgasms, through the  
subsequent mopping up of bodily fluids, the tender final kiss before they  
parted... And then Blair would head back to Jim's desk and launch into  
some fantastic tale about elderly women and disgruntled postal workers.  
But before any of this could come to pass, Blair's eyes opened to slits,  
and then, much wider.

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah..." Argent moaned.

"No!" Jim shrank from the room before Blair could scramble free. Shutting  
the door behind him, he struggled to swallow, his heart pounding coldly  
in his throat.

After a moment, he felt safe enough to take a moment to catch his breath  
and collect his thoughts. One by one, the tumblers in his head slid into  
place, opening the doorway through to enlightenment. Not only did this  
event fit in nicely with the rest of Jim's day; it also cast a new light  
on his seemingly incomprehensible conversation with Argent in the van that  
afternoon. Every new angle from which Jim regarded the situation was like  
another kick in the gut. Blair certainly _did_ like boys, he'd been  
dead wrong about that. He just didn't like Jim. There was a melodramatic  
Dead Girlfriend song in there somewhere.

"Jim!" Blair swung the door open and skidded into the hallway. "Thank  
God you're still here."

"I don't think God had anything to do with it, Sandburg." He cast a  
pained look toward the evidence room. "This... this is offensive for _so_

many reasons."

"I can explain."

"_You_ can't even dress yourself properly," Jim said, gesturing  
at his guide's open fly.

  
Blair flushed, and zipped. "Listen, Jim. I--"

"This isn't a good time." He risked a look at Blair, and immediately regretted  
it. Hair in total disarray, skin flushed, lips swollen, his shirt still  
half untucked, he was the kind of wreck Jim himself would have liked to  
be responsible for. He'd thought the destruction of his bathroom was as  
much heartbreak as any man could be subjected to, but this was something  
else. That Blair could prefer Argent to him was akin to the trials of Job.  
"Look, I've still got a shitload of paperwork to do. I'll see you later."

"Wait a minute!"

"What?"

"I just wanted to say..."

"_What?_"

The door opened again, and Argent appeared, his Safety Dog costume safely  
fastened. He blanched when he saw Jim. "Hey."

Jim raised his hands in supplication. "I'll be upstairs," he said wearily.  
"_Working_."

"Just give me a minute and I'll help you, all right?"

"Forget it, Sandburg. I'll manage."

"_Jim_."

The detective turned. Blair was the picture of dejection, the only person  
Jim had ever met who could turn on a dime from the embodiment of one emotion  
to the embodiment of another, with no transition between the two. If Argent  
hadn't been there, if Blair's eyes weren't glazed, if the moon hadn't been  
in Capricorn, Jim might have said something. Instead, he shook his head,  
turned, and walked away.  
   
 

*** *** ***

Never try to wait out an insomniac. It was one of the iron-clad credos  
by which Jim lived, and it had been a hard lesson to learn, but once he  
had, he'd never forgotten it. The best he could hope for, pitted against  
Sandburg the Sleepless, was that Blair would be so preoccupied with whatever  
he was doing that he wouldn't notice Jim's return. And that wasn't much  
hope at all.

It was after one when Jim finally came home, and though Blair had classes  
in the morning, he was camped out on the sofa, not quite watching the late  
show. "Hey, man," he offered when Jim tossed his keys in the basket. "How's  
that carpal tunnel problem?"

"The doctors say there's no reason why I can't still lead a normal life.  
What the hell are you watching?"

"_Haunted Castle of the Cannibal Biker Chicks_."

"Wasn't that a Hardy Boys book?"

"Jim, are we going to talk about this or not?"

"No," Jim said easily. "We're not."

"Jim--"

"I'm so tired, Sandburg," Jim groused. "And I still have to clean the  
bathroom."

"I did that," Blair said.

"The hell you say."

"I _did_. Take a look, man, you could have a cocktail party in  
there."

Jim narrowed his eyes.

"It's not a trick, Jim. I _value_ my life."

The detective crossed the room slowly, afraid to believe even as the  
smell of cleaning solvent became impossible to ignore. True to Blair's  
word, the bathroom was restored. The shower curtain and Jim's Irish Spring  
had been replaced rather than repaired (thank God) and Blair had placed  
the new issue of _Betty and Veronica's Double Digest_ on the toilet  
tank. "Nice going, Sandburg. Looks like you live to smite another day."

"Sorry."

"Yeah, whatever," he muttered, scrubbing his face with both hands. "Good  
night."

"I should have said something," Blair said quietly.

"It's none of my business."

"It is," he said, following Jim up the stairs. "You're my partner, you're  
my roommate, you're my best friend, you're--"

"I'm God, Sandburg" Jim cut in. "That's why I sleep upstairs and wash  
my sheets every Sunday. _You_ sleep downstairs," he said, looking  
pointedly at the foot of the stairs, "and just _buy_ new sheets whenever  
Sears has a White Sale. You, Sandburg," he said, poking Blair in the chest,  
"are Satan."

"I prefer 'Beelzebub,'" he smirked.

"Every criminal has an alias. Now go away."

"I need to know you're okay with this," he said, meeting Jim's eyes.

_Like the man said: I'm pretty fucking far from okay_. "I'm fine.  
I'm great. I'm relieved, in fact. After three years of Sandburg's Bimbos  
On Parade, I was beginning to think you were _flighty_."

Blair examined him. Standing so close to him, thoroughly disinfected,  
he was impossible to resist. And it must have shown on Jim's face, because  
Blair enveloped him in a bear hug before he had a chance to back away.  
"I love you, man."

"Yeah, well, bring on the pork rinds, Sandburg, I think we're having  
a sharing moment."

Blair released him. "I'll let you get to bed."

"Chief?"

"What?"

A hundred possible sentences flitted through his mind, ranging from  
the indignant--"_Safety_ Dog?" to the Abba-esque--"Take a chance on  
me." to pure, elemental Jim--"If I ever catch you fucking that guy again,  
I'll neuter him myself." Finally, he opted for hip, yet practical. "Next  
time, lock the door, all right?"

Blair gave him a strange look. "Sure, Jim."

Jim collapsed on his bed as soon as he heard Blair close his bedroom  
door. _Well, Jim, it's official. Your truck looks like a leftover from  
the Beverly Hillbillies auction, you live in an apartment, you're reviled  
by your coworkers, you can't sustain a long-term relationship, you're losing  
your hair, you still don't know all the words to Stairway to  
Heaven and now, yes, it's true, the target of your unwholesome yearnings  
would rather fuck a man in a dog costume than you. James Joseph Ellison,  
you suck._  
   
 

*** *** ***

####   
MONDAY

  
"Aw, Christ," Jim moaned, glaring at his alarm clock. After the day he'd  
had, he'd had no intention of getting up early again. Blair could sleep  
in his own filth for one day, if it meant that much to him; Jim just didn't  
have the will to stop him. Some part of Jim's mind clearly disagreed, however.  
Though he'd been sure he'd set the alarm for 6:30, 5:30 it was. He was  
at home with his bull-headedness; though he was awake, though he knew he  
would remain so, he refused to get out of bed until he felt like it. Rolling  
onto his back, he flung his arms wide and let his mind wander.

It was no trouble at all to reinvent Blair's escapade in the evidence  
room, and even less to place himself in Argent's position. Apart from the  
Safety Dog get-up, it was a familiar scene. If he'd had any lingering doubts  
as to whether Anthropologist Sex was really all that Kinky, they'd been  
erased the night before. All that energy, all that enthusiasm... _Was_  
there a man alive who had never dreamed of one night, just one night, when  
he could lie back and let his partner do all the work? He pictured Blair  
riding him, hair flying, throat working, sweat beading on his chest, chanting  
Jim's name with every stroke. His hands would use Jim's chest for leverage,  
his legs would grip Jim's waist, and Jim... Jim would just take it all  
in, playing Tilt-a-Whirl to Blair's sugar-high ten-year old.

True to form, Jim was erect before his imaginary Blair could even toss  
out a ticket and yell "I wanna go again!" He stroked himself cautiously  
through his boxers. Oh... yeah. He was good to go. He did it to himself  
every damn time, just let it go until he was on a hair trigger and he found  
himself looking at produce with unhealthy interest. Picturing himself fucking  
Blair hadn't exactly been the height of intelligence, either, not when  
picturing himself buying _paint_ with Blair could do this to him.  
Squeezing himself gently, he tried to think. Blair didn't have office hours,  
that was something. Jim had spent so many years in Covert Ops that he could  
even be _tortured_ quietly, that was something else. And he still  
had some time before he had to get up. The decision made, Jim let his mind  
wander back to a better place. A _naked_ place. He rocked his hips  
minutely, giving himself up to the fantasy entirely. Blair's mouth slid  
a hot, wet trail down Jim's chest. His hands were gentle, his ass perfection,  
and the soft, broken sounds he made with Jim inside him were enough to  
make Jim believe in a higher power. Jim bucked up into his hands, unable  
to suppress a moan. He was so close, so close...

And Blair's alarm sounded.

"What the hell..?" He released his cock immediately, as if an angry  
nun was standing over him with a yard stick. Before he could clear his  
head, he heard Blair thunder out of his room, muttering "late, late, _late_,"  
under his breath as he headed for the bathroom.

"Sandburg?" Blair ignored him. "Chief!" The bathroom door slammed. Grumbling  
to himself, Jim abandoned all hope of getting off and wrapped himself in  
his robe, thumping down the stairs as he did. The bathroom door shook on  
its hinges when Jim pounded it.

"What?" Blair called, turning off the water.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Who had first shower yesterday, Sandburg?"

"_You_ did, man."

"Excuse me?"

"You left me with all the cold water, and then made some lame joke about  
how you were doing your part to save the world from an army of little Sandburgs.  
_Remember?_"

This last was said with such irritation that Jim couldn't help but smile.  
"That was Sunday."

"Right," Blair said slowly, as if Jim was particularly stupid, "and  
today... is Monday."

"Today's Tuesday, Blair."

"Whatever, man. I don't have time to argue with you, all right?"

"Well, actually--" Blair turned the shower on again, effectively drowning  
Jim out. He blinked, unable to find it in himself to get pissed off. Nobody  
needed a cold shower more than Jim did, after all, and Blair would pay  
for this slight when he finally realized he'd gotten up at the crack of  
dawn for no apparent reason. Then Jim-- who was generally credited with  
more nobility than he possessed-- would rub Blair's little pug nose in  
it, probably while singing "Dumb dumb, dumb dumb, are you ever dumb..."

The coffee had just finished brewing when Blair burst out of the bathroom,  
heading for the door at speed. Jim tossed him a banana, Blair Elvis Stojko'd  
his keys out of the basket, and the freakiest person Jim knew was gone  
again. Sighing, Jim poured himself a cup of coffee and shuffled off toward  
the bathroom. When he finally reached the door, jaw and mug dropped in  
unison. "That lying, cheating, Safety-Dog-fucking little _bastard!_"

With the exceptions of the spilled coffee and the shards of ceramic  
from Jim's mug, the bathroom looked _exactly_ as it had the previous  
morning, right down to the torn shower curtain and the soap in the toilet.  
Of all the people Jim had ever met, only Blair was smart enough to be able  
to recreate this catastrophe so flawlessly. Of all the people Jim had ever  
met, only Blair was _insane_ enough to have done this to Jim twice.  
The detective gazed dully into his ruined sink, too stunned yet for thoughts  
of homicide. _God, grant me the strength to change the things I can,  
the serenity to accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference_.  
Sighing heavily, casting one last, pained look at the bathroom, Jim backed  
down the hallway and hunted down his cell.

"Banks."

"Captain, it's Jim."

"This better be good, detective."

"I'm going to be a little late, sir. A-- uh, a personal matter came  
up--"

"Before seven in the morning?"

Jim smirked. "When have you ever known me to have a crisis at a decent  
hour?"

"Yeah, yeah. How long do you need?"

"An hour?"

"Remind me to start having you take care of _my_ personal matters,  
Jim. One hour."

"Thanks, Captain." Simon hung up, and Jim dialed again.

"Blair Sandburg."

"I'm going to find you, Sandburg, and when I do, you're going to wish  
your parents never met."

"Uncle Ned?"

"You killed my bathroom, Sandburg. Prepare to die."

"Listen, Jim, I--" Jim ended the connection and snapped his phone shut,  
throwing it on the sofa on his way back to the bathroom. Before he'd even  
yanked his rubber gloves in place, he'd already devised more than twenty  
ways to kill his guide with a "1000 Flushes" disk, many of them involving  
embarrassing psycho-sexual connotations. It was a welcome distraction.  


*** *** ***

When he finally walked into Major Crimes that morning, he felt he'd  
started the new day in a much better direction than the last. Clean-shaven,  
secure in the knowledge that his bathroom was once again a safe haven for  
the unclean, Jim was _this_ close to whistling the theme song from  
_The  
Andy Griffith Show_ while he waited for his coffee to finish pouring.  
By the time he'd taken the first sip, he felt confident that he'd exhausted  
every just possibility for torturing his best friend, from a savage beating  
with the toilet brush to shaving his head to being forced to wear Jim's  
after shave (Aqua Velva) instead of his own (CK "Be.")

"Detective Ellison!" Simon stomped toward him, his posture so threatening  
that Jim actually took a step back.

"Captain?"

"You're sure as hell not the _smartest _man I've ever met, so you  
must be the luckiest."

"Actually, that's debatable, too," Jim said, sipping his coffee again.  
"What's up?"

"I had to send Brown out with Argent on the Safety Dog thing," he growled.  
"If you'd gotten here five minutes sooner--"

"This is more appropriate," Jim assured him. "Trust me." _Wait a minute..._  
"Why is he going again?"

"What do you mean, _again?_ You think I'd do this to one of my  
men _twice?_"

Jim smirked. "If he had it coming. Listen, Simon, I told you not to  
use CoffeeMate anymore. I just went out with Argent yesterday. Even _he_  
doesn't deserve to do it two days in a row."

"When did you have your last urine test, detective?"

"Isn't that kind of personal?"

"Argent wasn't Safety Dog yesterday. Christ, he wasn't even _here_  
yesterday. He was still at the Peach Festival in Penticton--" Simon said  
with a roll of his eyes-- "as everyone in the office knew by eight this  
morning."

Jim opened his mouth to speak, then closed it abruptly. _Sandburg  
trashes the bathroom, Argent goes into heat.._. Jim knew better than  
to ask Simon what day it was. "Peach Festival," he said, laughing weakly.  
"That's the pits."

Simon gave him a pained look. "Get out of my sight before I send you  
in for a psych evaluation, detective."

Moments later, Jim slumped in his chair, staring at his page-a-day calendar  
in shock. Among his many _personality quirks_, he made a point of  
tearing off the calendar pages at day's end, folding them neatly before  
throwing them in the trash. Even if he hadn't had that moment burned into  
his mind from the day before, the result of being particularly happy the  
day would never come again, he would have known he'd done it. He never  
missed a day. Even so, Monday stared him in the face, once again, and Jim  
was reasonably sure it would be well-nigh impossible to locate a second  
copy of his "365 Pigs" calendar in the middle of May. If this was deja  
vu, it was the most vivid, most detailed, and most unwelcome deja vu Jim  
had ever experienced. Frowning deeply, he picked up the phone and dialed.

"Blair Sandburg."

Jim paused. This was further proof he didn't need. By now, Blair should've  
been tooling home, muttering to himself about how Jim was a stubborn, mean-spirited  
ass who'd let him leave without telling him he had the day off. Instead,  
he was in his office.

"I'm wearing a blue flannel shirt and an old pair of Levi's," Blair  
said in a bored voice. "Can I hang up now?"

"Pop quiz, Chief," Jim said. "Cranky dead guy who did a lot of pissing  
and moaning about how we're doomed to keep fucking up our lives, over and  
over, forever."

"Elvis?"

"I'm serious, Sandburg."

"So am I, man. That guy was a real downer by the time he finally kicked  
it. No, it was Nietsche, man. That theory you've mangled is his theory  
of eternal recurrence."

"What do you think?"

"I'm sticking with Elvis. At least he knew how to have a good time.  
Look, Jim, you have to look at it this way: if you keep reliving your life,  
you relive the good as well as the bad, right?"

"But you can change your future."

"Theoretically, sure, assuming you had prior knowledge of how it was  
going to go if you acted a certain way. But Nietsche wasn't talking about  
a narrow window. You know, _if I had this to do over again_, whatever.  
He was talking about an entire life, start to finish. _That_ he figured  
you had to keep repeating."

"That's just fucking great."

"What is this about, man? Not two hours ago you're threatening my life,  
and now you want to talk philosophy?"

"Forget it. I'll talk to you later." He hung up the phone and buried  
his face in his hands. _They're trying to drive me insane. That's the  
only explanation_. The thought of calling Blair back and asking him  
who it was who'd said dreams were real and daily life was a dream was an  
uncomfortable one. Jim was a short step away from being dragged along to  
Blair's weekly poetry readings as it was.

It wouldn't be _that_ hard to find a second "365 Pigs" calendar,  
now that he thought of it. It would be _really_ easy if Blair had  
bought it during the big Christmas shopping season, when he'd bought Jim  
the one he'd already given him. But that... that indicated a degree of  
foresight and premeditation that bordered on the psychotic, and no matter  
what else Jim thought of Blair, he couldn't picture his guide wielding  
a chainsaw. Frowning, he picked up the phone again and dialed '0.'

"Operator. How can I help you?"

"Can you just tell me today's date?" he asked in a low voice.

"Could you speak up, please, sir?"

"What day is it?" he said loudly. One of the dispatch women gave him  
a look.

"It's May 25th, sir."

"Yeah, but what _day?_"

"Monday."

Jim hung up. Blair could have rigged Jim's calendar, and if he tried,  
he could have convinced Jim's coworkers to help him gull his friend, but  
no _way_ could he have enlisted the help of the telephone people.  
If he had a hard time getting them to give him a phone number without also  
giving him an explosive sigh and an offer to send him a copy of the Cascade  
white pages, a prank involving their entire staff manning the phones 24/7  
was a bust, for sure. Jim was stupid even to consider it. But then, he  
was apparently living in an alternate dimension, so what the hell, right?  
_Monday.  
Again. This Monday again, yet. I've died, and even though I always  
wear clean underwear and hold the door open for little old ladies, I've  
gone to hell_. How many times would he see his bathroom defiled? How  
many times would he have to sleaze his way out of driving Argent around  
town? God, how many times would he have to watch Argent fucking Blair?

Jim looked at his watch. When had he and Argent gone to Wonder Burger?  
He sprang out of his chair. No matter what other insanity took place today,  
Simon was never going to send back-up to the restaurant based on Jim's  
supposedly clairvoyant say-so. Argent had been useless the last time the  
thief had pulled a gun; there was no reason to believe he was going to  
turn into the Terminator now. And the gunman could empty his gun on Argent  
for all Jim cared, but nobody was shooting Brown, whether this was a dream  
or not.  


*** *** ***

"Jim! I came as soon as I heard! Are you all right?"

"I'll live," Jim said, leaning against the wall for effect. The Wonder  
Burger bust had been a disaster, with Jim arriving just in time for the  
thief to open fire on him. He'd still been apprehended, and nobody else  
had been hurt, but the only thing everyone seemed to agree on was that  
Jim deserved to be shot in the leg for walking out on his mountain of paperwork  
for a quick burger. It hadn't occurred to him to attempt to explain himself.  
Still, it was worth it, all of it, to have Blair fawning over him while  
they waited for the doctor to sign off on Jim's release.

"I can't help but feel partly responsible," Blair said, touching Jim's  
shoulder.

"What the hell for?"

"The bathroom," he said, shame-faced. "You've been obsessing on it all  
day, am I right?"

"_No_," he said defensively. "Look, Chief, I know you've got some  
weird ideas about me, but I'm not some kind of obsessive-compulsive clean  
freak, all right?"

"Will you use my toothbrush tonight?" Blair asked, batting his eyelashes.  
"It'd really reassure me that you're okay."

Jim was appalled. "What am I, some kind of barbarian?"

"Riiight."

"Right nothing. That's disgusting, Sandburg."

"Wait a minute," he said, squinting.

"What?"

"I think-- yes, yes, I am. I'm developing a whole new theory about your  
pathetic sex life, man."

"Fuck you, Sandburg."

He grinned. "Listen, Jim, I have an idea."

"What?" he asked with dread.

"Hey, I thought I heard you two bickering out here," Argent said, rounding  
the corner.

"Mike! How are you?"

"Ah, a little shaken up, but Jim got the worst of it. Your timing really  
sucks, by the way, Jim."

"Thanks. Thanks a lot."

"You know I'm just kidding, don't you, buddy?"

"I--"

"Ellison!"

Jim froze. For the second time that day, Simon was charging down a hallway  
toward him, looking like a month of days like this one. "Captain," he said  
weakly.

"How's the leg?"

"Still in one piece."

"I'm so happy for you," he bit out. "Can you spare a minute, or are  
you suddenly dying for a Slurpee?"

Jim closed his eyes. "Sure," he said. Simon dragged him into one of  
the examination rooms and shut the door behind them. "Now you listen up,  
and you listen good, _Detective_" was the last thing Jim heard for  
a solid fifteen minutes, apart from his own name. When they emerged, Brown  
and Ryf were standing in the hallway where Blair and Argent had been, moments  
before.

Jim blinked. "Has anybody seen Sandburg?"

"Jim, you've got a hole in your leg. The only problem Sandburg has is  
split ends."

"That was a cheap shot," he said, smiling grudgingly. "Come on, he's  
my ride."

Ryf and Brown exchanged a look.

"What?"

Brown shook his head. "Forget it, buddy. Argent said something about  
showing Blair the Safety Dog costume."

Jim scowled. "That's a long walk."

"You could always... oh, I don't know... _wait_ for the guy, Jim.  
Or we could probably scare you up a wheelchair."

Jim brandished his cane at the two men. "I'm not afraid to use this."

"You don't know _how_ to use that," Ryf snickered.

"Never mind," Jim grumbled. "I'll find him myself."

"Why don't I just walk you down, Jim?"

"Because I have a feeling that could be pretty embarrassing," Jim muttered,  
staggering toward the elevator. Blair, Argent and the Safety Dog costume  
were a combination Jim had hoped never to have to consider again. Why he'd  
remembered the hold-up but not the single most terrifying spectacle of  
his life was a matter best left to trained professionals. _How much trouble  
can Sandburg get into in the hospital?_

He had his answer when he finally found the van, giving its shocks a  
good workout as it rocked spectacularly in the hospital parking lot. Rolling  
his eyes, Jim limped toward it, the mingled sounds of Blair's sex noises  
and the van stereo blasting some unidentified techno-garbage that had undoubtedly  
come from Blair's ever-present backpack growing louder with every step.

It was hard to say what was more painful for Jim, knowing Blair was  
fucking Argent _again_, or knowing he was doing it in the full realization  
that Jim was a wounded man. He didn't have the strength to pound on the  
side of the van until one or the other of them heard him, and he _certainly_  
didn't have the stamina to go back inside. _Jim, you are a stupid, stupid  
man_. He had no choice but to rest against the car beside the van and  
wait them out. From the sound of things, it was going to be a long wait.  
_Argent  
was right, buddy. Your timing really sucks_.

Jim tried to imagine himself consenting to this, in Argent's place.  
A hospital full of cops, any of whom could leave the building at any moment,  
all of whom would recognize the Cascade PD van on sight, and Blair and  
Argent couldn't wait another fifteen minutes for a slightly more private  
place to do... things that didn't bear thinking about? Then again, these  
were the same randy bastards who'd fucked each other cross-eyed in the  
evidence room with the door unlocked, the day before. Or, if you looked  
at it a slightly different way, the same day. _Damn it_. Maybe it

_was_  
a dream. Jim was willing to believe _he_ could turn stupid on a moment's  
notice, but he had a harder time believing it of Blair.

Blair's cries were getting to Jim now, regardless of who was responsible  
for them. Maybe it was the painkillers, maybe the fatigue, but Jim found  
himself opening up his senses, immersing himself in Blair as much as he  
could with another man standing between them. A smile bloomed on his face,  
and he left it there, listening carefully to the changes in his guide's  
breathing, the variations in his voice between one caress and another,  
whatever they might be. It had disgusted him to see this before, but he  
regretted that now. What would Blair look like when he came? Jim imagined  
the play of muscles, Blair undulating beneath him, his hair springy with  
sweat, his eyes bright and unfocused. The fantasy came to the same place  
it always did before long, with Jim aching and irritable, imagining Blair  
chanting his name.

"Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim..." The van rocked, and Blair's voice got louder  
and louder until it choked off suddenly, followed by a keening, rasping  
breath. _Ooh, just what I've always wanted_. Jim slumped to the ground,  
heedless of the pain in his leg. His final thought before he passed out  
was that he had the vapors, and nobody would ever let him live it down.  


*** *** ***

"It's not as if I've made a big secret out of it or something," Blair  
said, his first words to Jim or anyone since he'd staggered out of the  
van to find the detective sprawled on the pavement. Through it all-- dragging  
Jim back into the hospital, waiting for the doctor to re-stitch his wound,  
the release, the trip to Jim's truck-- Blair had remained utterly silent,  
which fact was more disturbing to Jim than anything else that had happened  
that day, including the fact that this appeared to be the second time he'd  
lived it.

"Out of what?" he asked, staring moodily out the passenger side window.

"Out of what," Blair said, snorting derisively. "I'm not exactly the  
poster boy for straight America."

Jim blinked. "The gay thing? I don't give a rat's ass about that, and  
you know it."

Blair was silent.

"What?"

"What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing," Jim said, too quickly.

"Come on."

"Hey, cut me some slack, here. I'm tired, I'm delirious, and I've had  
the worst day of my entire life. Again."

 "I'm not _even_ touching that, man."

Jim sighed, slumping further into his seat. It just figured that the  
day he finally heard a fantasy come to life was a day that was clearly  
a figment of his imagination. Hell, he didn't know for sure that Blair  
_had_  
been calling his name. In Jim's current state, Blair could have been calling  
_Mussolini's_ name and the detective wouldn't have known the difference.  
Further to that, calling a guy's name during sex was certainly no guarantee  
that you'd actually have sex with that guy, if the opportunity presented  
itself, which it wouldn't as long as Jim's leg was lame. Yes, he'd had  
a fantasy come to life, to some extent, anyway, but it meant nothing.

_Nothing_.

"Why didn't you tell me you knew?" Blair asked quietly.

"Because I _didn't_ know, Sandburg. Jesus, you think the only way  
I can take something like this in stride is if I've been waiting for it  
for three years?"

His guide smirked in the darkness. "Do you want me to answer that?"

"Maybe I'm just an enlightened, nineties kind of guy."

"Sure, Jim. You're so enlightened it doesn't even show." He glanced  
at Jim. "You really didn't know."

"I didn't know."

"It was a hell of a way to find out, then," he snickered.

"I could have done with a little less enlightenment," he admitted.

"Casually leaving copies of _The Advocate_ lying around," Blair  
said.

"A rainbow sticker on the back window of your car."

"Inviting you to march with me in the Gay Pride parade." He grinned.  
"I can't believe you're okay with this, man. I thought for sure you'd--"

"Stop smacking you and start saying _What's that supposed to mean?_  
when you tell me I need to get in touch with my feminine side?"

"More like rip my lungs out through my nose and donate my corpse to  
science."

"That's nice, Sandburg, that's real nice."

"Come on, Jim, don't be like that. I mean, look at you." Jim looked.  
"Strong, tyrannical father figure, no mother, military background, it all  
sets you up for the sort of homophobic, knee-jerk reaction in a guy that  
says 'Back off, nancy boy, I don't go for no queers,' see, and then, with  
your marriage failing, and the whole sentinel thing, it's going to make  
you question your identity, your choices--"

"See, you know what I hear when you start going on like this?"

"Ooh ee, ooh ah ah, bing bang, walla walla bing bang?"

"That's about right. And I'll tell you something else, Junior--"

"Wait," Blair said, stomping on the brakes.

"What?"

"Look." He pointed at the Hasty Mart across the street. A man with a  
gun sprinted to a blue Civic and leapt inside. "I'll call it in."

"Screw that," Jim said. "No time."

"Jim, maybe you can make Old MacDonald here push past twenty, but I  
can't, and you're not driving."

"God damn it," he muttered.

"Call in the plate," Blair said reasonably, watching the car disappear.  
"Then we go home, and you can be the ever-vigilant watchman of our tv for  
one night. All right?" Jim was silent. "_All right?_"

"Yeah, yeah. Fine."

"Hey, if we hurry, we can still catch the tail end of _Ally McBeal_."

  
Jim moaned.

 

*** *** ***

####   
MONDAY

  
"Un-fucking-believable," Jim snarled, glaring at his alarm clock. In one  
final stab at sorting things out, he'd deliberately set his alarm for 7:17  
the night before, figuring there was no way he'd be able to confuse it  
with 5:30. He supposed Blair could have sneaked up the stairs and reset  
it, but not even Blair was sadistic enough to do something like that to  
a wounded man. Then again, Jim wasn't a wounded man anymore, which was  
about the only good thing that had come out of this sorry mess so far.  
Any other time, he'd have been pleased to go to bed with a gunshot wound  
in his leg and wake up whole, but there were limits to what he'd do for  
such a windfall, and this was one.

Rolling onto his stomach, Jim closed his eyes and tried to organize  
his thoughts. First came the demolished bathroom. There had to be some  
way to stop that from happening to him again. There just _had_ to.  
Next, he would be ordered to drive his nemesis around town in a dog costume,  
in the midst of which event he would be called upon to prevent a robbery.  
If there was a way to get out of chauffeuring Argent _and_ prevent  
the robbery, he'd be laughing. Finally, Blair would sneak off with Argent  
at some moment that was guaranteed to be doubly detrimental to Jim's happiness.  
He could _definitely_ do something about that. But then what? Go home,  
wake up, and do it again?

Concern for his bathroom won the day, and he rolled out of bed with  
a groan, wrapping himself in his robe as he descended the stairs. After  
he's started the coffee, he stalked down the hallway to Blair's room and  
threw open the door. His guide was lying in an abandoned sprawl in the  
center of his tiny bed, naked but for a pair of boxers. Jim watched the  
even rise and fall of his chest for a full minute, mesmerized. He was loathe  
to wake his friend, but letting him sleep was a sure road to heartbreak.

"Hey," he said, shaking Blair roughly. "Sandburg. Wakey-wakey."

Blair smacked him with surprising strength. "Fuck off," he mumbled.

"No can do, Chief. It's time to get up."

"No, it's _not_," Blair said, rolling to his side. "It's... Shit.  
What time is it?"

"Never mind. You can get up on your own steam, or I can help you out."

Blair's eyes opened a crack. He managed to steal a look at his clock  
before Jim could get in the way. "It's not time, Jim. Don't make me," he  
pleaded.

"I'll tell you what, Sandburg: In the entire time I've known you, you've  
never given yourself enough time to get ready. You stay in bed to the last  
minute, then trash the loft getting ready, and no matter what, you're _still  
_late.  
So today, I'm doing you a favor out of the goodness of my heart. I'm giving  
you back time you would never have had again, because you're my friend  
and I want you to be happy. Now haul your ass out of bed before I tear  
off your arm and use it to beat you to death."

"God damn it," Blair snarled, shoving Jim aside. "I get first shower,"  
he said, stalking out of his room.

"Not so fast," said Jim, grabbing his arm.

"Jesus, _what?_"

"That bathroom had better be _immaculate_ when you're done with  
it, Junior. I mean it."

"Jim, I could clean the Washington Monument in the time you've given  
me, all right?" Yanking his arm free, he stomped down the hallway and slammed  
the bathroom door behind him. Smiling in satisfaction, Jim poured himself  
a cup of coffee and helped himself to a bagel, his eyes never straying  
far from the clock.

About forty-five minutes later, Blair emerged from the bathroom with  
a less sincere scowl on his face "It's all yours, man,".

"Let's just look together, shall we?" Jim handed him a mug of coffee  
and led him back to the bathroom.

"_What_ is your _problem_ today, Jim? Are you freaking out  
on inhalants or something?"

"I'm just protecting my interests," he said mildly. Shoving the door  
open a crack, he peered cautiously inside.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Blair said in disgust, pushing past him and  
flicking on the light. "_Look_. It looks better now than it did last  
night."

"Yeah, it does," Jim agreed, sipping his coffee. "And what have you  
learned from this?"

"How about that I live with a mean-spirited, anal-retentive, self-involved  
lunatic who's a hop, skip and a jump away from wearing little plastic bags  
on his hands when he has to open doors?"

"Don't you think you're overreacting just a tad, Sandburg?"

"I'm entitled," he growled, picking up his keys. "I didn't get much  
_sleep_  
last night." With that, he left the apartment, slamming his second door  
of the day.

"Huh," Jim said. "That went better than I thought it would." Hesitating  
only fractionally, Jim picked up his cell phone and dialed Simon's number.

"Banks."

"Captain, it's Jim. I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, sir--"

"No, you're not. What do you want?"

"I'm going to be a little late this morning," he said.

"Because..."

Jim winced. "It's a personal matter."

"Jim, unless you have a _very_ good reason for being late today,  
I will personally _fire_ your ass the _second_ your balding head  
shows up in my bullpen."

"It's kind of embarrassing," he said, stalling. _This isn't how this  
was supposed to happen. I say I'll be late, you say something rude and  
hang up_.

"Do I sound sympathetic to you, detective?"

"Ants," Jim said weakly.

"Excuse me?"

"Hundreds of 'em, Cap. I noticed them on my way past Sandburg's bedroom.  
I keep telling him not to leave food under his bed, but no no no--"

"Jim!"

"Sir?"

"I don't care."

"But Captain--"

"Take care of the ants, Jim. And for god's sake, do something about  
the grasshopper."

"Thank-you, sir." Simon hung up, and Jim slumped against the wall. _I  
just sold out my best friend. And best of all, I did it not fifteen minutes  
after he left the loft in a snit. This... is not conducive to a romantic  
environment_.

  
*** *** ***

"Ellison, in my office, now!"

The detective did as he was told, meekly shutting the door behind him.  
"What's up, Captain?"

"Ants," Simon said darkly. "Was that the best you could come up with?"

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"If you'd gotten in five minutes earlier, you'd be doing the Safety  
Dog demo right now," he said. "Are you going to stand here and tell me  
you knew nothing about that?"

"Jeez, Simon, who am I, Dionne Warwick? How was I supposed to know you  
wanted me to do Safety Dog?"

"You had no idea."

"I had no idea. Come on, Captain, when have I ever lied to you to get  
out of doing your dirty work?"

Simon regarded him silently for an uncomfortable moment. "All right,"  
he said finally. "Get out of here."

Jim played clock-watcher all morning, waiting for what he'd determined  
was the ideal time to head down to Wonder Burger. He knew he was going  
to have a tough time explaining himself; maybe even worse than the day  
before, but it would all be worth it in the end. _I hope_. Just after  
one o'clock, Jim paged himself and loudly faked an emergency phone call.

He'd been waiting in the Wonder Burger parking lot for less than ten  
minutes when he spotted the gunman climbing out of a Chevy Impala. "Excuse  
me," he said, following the man across the pavement.

"Yeah, what?"

Jim flashed his badge. "Cascade PD."

"I didn't do anything, man."

"I see you have a gun," Jim said. "That's a concealed weapon. And I  
bet you don't have a permit for it, do you?"

The gunman reached for it, and Jim spun him face first into the truck.  
He was just about to cuff the guy when Brown and Argent pulled up in the  
van.

"What the hell is going on here?"

"He's got a gun," Jim said.

"Him and half the citizens of Cascade," Argent snickered.

"Are you going to give me a hand, here, or--" Jim grimaced and looked  
to Brown. "Well, how about you?"

"Sure, Jim," he said. "Read him his rights and I'll clear out the back  
of the van."  


*** *** ***

"Since when do you stake out fast food joints on the off chance that  
someone might walk by carrying a gun, _detective_?" Simon stood against  
his office door, arms crossed.

"I got an anonymous tip," Jim said lamely.

"An anonymous tip," he repeated.

"Yep."

"About a hungry man with a gun."

"That's about the size of it, sir."

"And in spite of the fact that I have _scores_ of uniformed officers  
out on the streets dinging people for broken tail lights, you felt this  
required your personal attention?"

Jim shuddered. Until that moment, it had never occurred to him that  
an eternity of this Monday meant he would be taking shit from Simon every  
day for the rest of his life. No matter what Jim said or did, his Captain  
would never cheer up, never turn down that sixth cup of coffee, never have  
gotten laid the night before. He was doomed to day after day of sarcastic,  
eye-rolling remarks, day after day of being maligned, day after day of--

"Jim, what's going on with you?"

He frowned. "I don't know what you mean, sir."

"The erratic behavior, the cheesy lies, the defensive remarks-- Jim,  
I'll level with you, it's starting to worry me."

Jim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Now was not the time to  
fly off the handle. "I don't have burnout, I'm not on the rebound, and  
I'm not freaking out on inhalants, all right? I'm just having a bad day.  
_Again_."

Simon sighed. "Right. Listen, Jim, I'm your friend. I don't want to  
make trouble for you. But if you have a problem, _I _have a problem."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this. Do you want me to submit to a drug  
screen?"

"Not yet," he said.

"Can I go back to work?"

"Sure. Jim," he said when the detective was almost out the door. "I  
meant what I said. I _am_ your friend." He said it with such sadness,  
such compassion, that Jim barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.  
_Great.  
Simon and Sandburg are going to have an intervention for me now_. Jim  
checked his watch on the way back to his desk. Blair should have been there  
by now. "Has anybody seen... Sandburg..." His voice drifted off when he  
saw Blair's backpack on his chair. "Aw, _Jesus!_"

"Jim," Ryf said, alarmed, "What's going on?"

"More of the same," said Jim, speed-walking out of the bullpen. He knew  
he was risking a zone-out, releasing all his senses so completely, but  
he would do it, he would do _anything_, to keep Blair away from Argent,  
just once. With Blair's instruction burned into his subconscious, Blair's  
sex life providing his motivation, and Blair's anger that morning making  
Jim doubly desperate to locate him, the detective tracked Blair and Argent,  
finally turning up outside the copy room on the sixth floor. Jim tried  
the door, only to find it locked, the only change for the good he'd noticed  
so far that day. Hammering on the door, he tried to console himself with  
the knowledge that even Blair couldn't have found a new love machine and  
gotten naked with the guy in the fifteen minutes since he'd arrived at  
the station. The door swung open abruptly to reveal his swollen-lipped  
but fully-clothed guide.

"Jim! What are you doing here, man?"

"What the hell am _I _doing here?"

Blair smiled sheepishly. "Okay, okay. Pot and kettle. You, uh... that  
is..."

"Get rid of the Kennel Club," Jim said. "I need to talk to you."

"I don't know what you..." He broke off when Argent shoved past him  
and stepped into the hallway, still wearing the Safety Dog costume.

"Ellison," he said.

"Is this some kind of kink for you or something?"

"Jim, man, this really isn't a good time," Blair said weakly.

Jim shoved him back into the copy room, slammed the door and locked  
it. Before Blair could ask him any more questions, Jim pinned him to the  
wall, sealing their mouths together with a wet, searing kiss. _Oh God,  
I could die right here_. The taste of Blair, the feel of his mouth,  
the texture of his hair, all of it went straight to Jim's gut. He pressed  
closer, dug his hands in deeper, plunged his tongue further, until Blair  
was squirming against him and he didn't care why. "Choose me," he said  
roughly when he finally broke away to kiss Blair's throat. "Be with me."

And now he _was_ responsible for the swollen lips, the tousled  
hair, the glazed eyes. It was a hollow victory, though; he was also responsible  
for the flare of anger in those eyes when his guide managed to insinuate  
his hands between their bodies well enough to pry Jim off him.

"What the hell is the matter with you?"

"I don't--"

"You've been acting weird all week, Jim, and now _this?_ Where  
is this coming from?"

"I'd have thought that would be obvious."

"No way, man, it's not that easy. This isn't Queen for a Day here, Jim,  
this is my _life_, all right?"

Jim shook his head. "You are so out there with this, it isn't even funny,  
Chief. This is _me_," he said slowly, "Wanting _you_."

"Uh-uh, Jim, it doesn't work that way. You never had a same-sex thought  
in your life that didn't come with its own jar of Rolaids."

"And here I thought you'd be pleased to discover we finally have something  
in common," Jim smirked.

"_Pleased?_ You thought I'd be _pleased?_"

"Maybe not pleased, exactly. Listen, I'm not asking you to get used  
to this right away. I'm not asking you for anything-- Okay, maybe _suggesting_,"  
he amended at Blair's skeptical snort. "All I'm saying," he purred, pressing  
himself tightly against his guide once again, "Is consider it. And stay  
away from Rin Tin Tin."

Blair tilted his head back, opening his mouth to Jim's kiss before the  
detective even offered it. He moaned softly when their lips met, a deep,  
throaty moan that Jim read acres of subtext into with a will. He kissed  
his guide gently now, exulting in his victory and more confident that everything  
had finally been settled between them. He pulled back slightly and stroked  
Blair's chest, squeezing his guide's breast happily.

"Wait," Blair gasped.

"I'm not going to do filthy things to you in the copy room, Chief,"  
Jim assured him. "I'm saving that for later."

"You're _leering_ at me?" He shoved Jim away a second time, glaring  
at him. "That is so _gross_, man. This whole situation is--"

"If you say gross, I'm going to kill myself."

"Not _gross_," he said, "but definitely not kosher, you know? This  
is like making out with a buddy."

"I hate to burst your bubble, Sandburg, but it's not _like_ making  
out with a buddy..."

"You know what I mean."

"Besides, I happen to have some pretty fond memories of making out with  
buddies."

"Cut it out, man, that is the grossest thing I've ever heard."

"Who do _you_ make out with, Junior?"

"I don't even want to have this _conversation_ with you, man. Shit!"  
He shook his head, then looked up at Jim abruptly, as if he'd suddenly  
remembered the impact what he was saying might have on his friend. "Look,  
this is too weird, all right?"

"All right," Jim said equably.

Blair blinked. "All right?"

"Yeah. Look, Sandburg, I know things happen a little differently in  
your country, but where I come from, you make a pass at someone, and if  
they turn you down, you don't spend the next six years pissing and moaning  
about it, you get on with your life."

"Uh... sure. Okay," he said, looking anything but. "Good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, sure."

"All right. Now come on," he said, cuffing Blair upside the head. "I  
have paperwork coming out the yin-yang, and I want to try and fit a workout  
in tonight."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Blair said quickly.

Jim rolled his eyes. "It's supposed to mean I get to say _Thank-you,  
Thigh-Master _the next time I have to haul ass to save yours, all right?"

Blair furrowed his brow. "Sometimes I don't get you, man."

"I guess you don't," Jim agreed.  


*** *** ***

When Jim got home from the gym, he found Blair in his favorite real-life  
Blair Pose: open-shirted and sitting cross-legged on the floor, bathed  
in candlelight. The expression on Blair's face was one of absolute contentment,  
absolute peace. A faint smile played around his mouth, but Jim couldn't  
believe it had anything to do with the music Blair had chosen for the night's  
meditation, another spoken-word monstrosity involving a lot of strange,  
shouting women.  


  
Shut up and eat/too bad no bon apetit/shut up and eat/you know my love  
is sweet  
 

 

Eighteen months in the jungle hadn't taught Jim to laugh in the face  
of opportunity. So naturally, watching Blair, the only wholly-formed thought  
in the detective's mind was that it would be _so_ easy just to casually  
knock that shirt from his guide's shoulders, and consequently  
_so_  
much easier to kneel down beside him and take one of those oh-so-inviting  
nipples into his mouth. Blair had taught him that meditation had its place  
in the scheme of things, but experience had taught him there were a lot  
more pleasant means of achieving contentment.

Jim sighed. It just figured. This was his personal best. No matter what,  
there was nothing he could do to improve this day. So, in addition to being  
ridiculed and debased, he could also look forward to being rejected daily  
by the one person on earth he would give up red meat for, come to that.  
That, or he could say nothing, and look forward to seeing Argent half-naked  
in that goddamned Safety Dog costume as he fucked Jim's guide in every  
public venue in the city.

"Blair," he murmured.

"_Jim_," he said sexily. His eyes snapped open. "Jim!" he covered  
with a quick smile. "How was the workout?"

"Tiring," said Jim. "I didn't mean for you to come out of it, I just  
wanted to say goodnight."

"Oh," Blair frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing, I guess. Goodnight."

Sparing one last look at Blair, Jim trudged up the stairs to his bedroom,  
stripped off his clothing, and collapsed on the bed. As he lay there, listening  
to Blair's breath as it gradually evened out again, he thought about setting  
his alarm, but finally decided it would be a waste of time. The irony was  
lost on him.  


*** *** ***

"Jim," Blair whispered. "_Jim_."

"Why are you whispering, Sandburg? Who are you going to wake up besides  
me?"

"Damn _me_ for a considerate bastard, man. I think it's still a  
hangin' offense in some states. I was just--"

"What time is it?" he groaned, rolling onto his back.

"Please, Jim, a little decorum," Blair said, yanking Jim's sheet up  
to the detective's neck.

"This from the man who was going to make the beast with three backs  
in the copy room with the Amazing Dog Baby? And are you going to answer  
my question?"

"We were just _kissing_, man, we weren't going anywhere with it.  
It's a little after one-thirty."

"Why are you waking me up on a school night, Sandburg?" Jim asked, aggrieved.

"I can't sleep," Blair said.

"Ah." Jim sat up in bed, careful to protect Blair from his nudity. "You  
blame me?"

Blair sprawled on his back on Jim's bed. He still wore the shirt, still  
open, but he'd lost his pants somewhere along the way. "Supposing we did  
it," he said.

"Yeah," Jim said slowly.

"Supposing we liked it."

"Still following, Chief."

"Would we have to do it again?"

Jim gave him an incredulous look. "I was kind of banking on that, Sandburg."

"You know what I mean. I mean, there are friends, and then, there are  
_friends_,  
right? Special friends. It's two different camps, man. It's not natural."

"Look around you, Chief. We're two grown men with a genetic predisposition  
to drink beer and shoot the shit together for the rest of our lives who  
live in the same apartment, double date, and take time out of our busy  
schedules to manage my hyperactive senses and swat each other's asses.  
Where the _hell_ are you seeing natural?"

"God damn it," Blair said.

"Go to bed, Blair. I can't talk this out tonight."

"Could I just--" He raked his hair, giving Jim a searching look. "I  
want to try something," he said finally.

Jim grinned. "Help yourself," he said.

Slowly, so slowly, Blair took hold of the edge of Jim's sheet and inched  
it down his chest to pool in his lap. By the time he was done, Jim's nipples  
were hard, his breath a little harsher than it was before. Blair smiled  
delightedly. "Christ, you're cut. I think you have the best body I've ever  
seen, in person." Jim's grin widened impossibly. Blair looked astounded  
that he'd just said what he'd just said, astounded that he'd gotten away  
with it. He reached out a hand, fingertips just brushing Jim's skin. The  
detective gasped softly.

"For all my kidding, I've thought about it, you know," Blair said in  
a hushed voice. "The way sex must be, for you. I figured, you know, if  
you can come in your pants from wearing silk underwear, _imagine_  
an orgasm! Every nerve in your body sort of going _woo-hoo!_ at once,  
but, like, ten times what other people have."

"It's all right," Jim admitted.

"Man!" Blair looked up at Jim suddenly. "I just--" Tentatively, he rolled  
Jim's nipple between his fingers.

"What?"

"Look at that," he said softly. "Would it hurt if I pinched?"

"Depends on how hard you pinch," Jim gasped. Smiling mischievously,  
his guide squeezed Jim's nipple harder. Jim's back arched against the headboard.

"This is too cool," said Blair, standing.

"Don't tell me you're leaving _now_," Jim complained.

Blair circled the bed, his eyes roaming Jim's body freely now. Every  
trace of his earlier contentment was gone, replaced with an expression  
of deep, lustful concentration. Jim had the uncomfortable feeling he was  
being appraised, judged.

"I'd like to try something else," Blair said finally.

"What?"

Without warning, he climbed on top of Jim, straddling his thighs. The  
awkwardness of the situation was illustrated in every twitch, every squirm,  
as Blair tried to find a comfortable position. Either that, or he was deliberately  
tormenting Jim, but the detective still clung to his fantasy that Blair  
had no mean streak to speak of. When he finally settled on Jim's legs,  
he grinned at the detective and tore off his shirt, tossing it carelessly  
on the floor. Jim winced.

"Ah-ah-ah," Blair said, stroking his jaw. "Are you trying to spoil my  
mood?"

"If that's what you wanted to try, Sandburg, you might as well just  
go outside and key my truck right now."

"That's not it," he murmured. "You're doing it again."

"What?"

"In the copy room, when I pulled back. You followed me."

"I didn't have that far to go, Chief."

"No, you _followed_ me," he said, his mouth less than an inch from  
Jim's now. "I pulled back," he said, demonstrating. Automatically, Jim  
strained his neck to encourage the kiss. "And you followed."

"That's great, Sandburg," Jim muttered. "Maybe you can rig me so I get  
a hard-on whenever I hear Bob Saget's voice, too."

"Don't you?" he asked innocently.

Growling, Jim anchored his hands in Blair's hair and pulled their mouths  
together. Blair moaned into his mouth, cooperating totally, and now Jim  
understood that he'd finally won, he'd finally reached that nameless pinnacle  
he'd been seeking all his life, he'd finally had that definitive kiss,  
that definitive touch, that definitive person. If there was a part of his  
mind that argued the basic wrongness of making a goal of one's soul mate,  
Jim wasn't listening to it. All he heard was Blair, whimpering, and the  
harsh sound of his breath when Jim released his mouth to trail kisses down  
his chest. All he knew was that he was the last word in _Loser_, but  
he'd still gotten the babe in the end, and nobody was revoking him now.

Blair scraped his chest against Jim's, his hair firing nerve endings  
the detective hadn't known he had. He squirmed beneath his guide in a wordless  
plea for _more_, and Blair supplied it, slithering down Jim's legs  
to stand on all fours, covering him. He kissed Jim softly, licked the detective's  
lips, then bent his head to take a nipple in his mouth. Jim cried out,  
fighting to keep from tangling a hand in his guide's hair. By the time  
Blair was satisfied enough with his work to start in on the other nipple,  
his hand had snaked beneath the sheet to stroke Jim's cock, urging Jim  
to try harder, feel more, need more.

"It's been a while since somebody gave me one of these," Blair said.  
"I'm in a quandary, here."

"You really _are_ Satan, aren't you?"

"Now, hold still, here, Jim. I mean, don't move at all. Can you do that?"

"Do I _look_ like I can do that?"

Blair yanked the sheet down to Jim's knees. His eyes widened minutely,  
eyebrows shooting up to his hairline.

Jim smirked. "Nervous, Sandburg?"

"Yeah, Jim, I'm terrified here. Closin' my eyes, thinkin' of England.  
It's just-- it's different when it's somebody else's, you know?"

"No, I _don't_ know. And I don't want to."

Blair bent to take Jim into his mouth, but stopped when he noticed the  
detective's hands rhythmically squeezing his sheets. Without another word,  
he took Jim's hands and dug them into his hair. Jim's cock slid down his  
throat on the first try, and the detective moaned extravagantly. It was  
_so_  
hot, _so_ tight, and he couldn't help thinking that Blair's ass would  
be hotter, tighter. He rocked his hips shamelessly, trusting Blair to be  
able to defy both Jim's hips and Jim's hands to keep from choking to death.  
Head thrashing on his pillow, he began using his grip on Blair's head to  
push himself still further in, to hold his guide in place. Heat and sensation  
coiled in his gut, and he was close, almost over the edge, when Blair pulled  
back, releasing Jim's cock and yanking his hair free.

"Jesus, Jim," he said, rubbing his head. "I give you an inch, and you  
tear me bald, man." Jim rose to his knees, and Blair's scowl vanished.  
"Hey, you've got, like, a full-body following thing happening here." The  
detective lunged, and Blair landed on his back at the foot of the bed with  
an indignant squeak. "Jim--" Jim kissed him hotly, shoving Blair's thighs  
apart and settling between them. He broke off the kiss on a gasp the instant  
their cocks made full contact, heat and sex spiraling outward from his  
gut. He fastened his mouth to the underside of Blair's jaw and began to  
rock.

"Jim... oh..." Blair clawed his back, his legs twining around the detective's  
hips. "Jim..."

Jim slipped a hand beneath the small of his guide's back, and Blair  
began the mythical undulating, the thought of which had kept Jim awake  
on many a night.

"_Jim_." All it would take was a particularly heartfelt _Jim_  
and the detective would be over the brink. All thoughts of taking it slow  
and biding his time were brushed aside in the need to get inside Blair  
just _once_ before Monday began again. Who knew how long it would  
take for Jim to find this combination of events again? For all he knew,  
his decision to sing _Cupid_ in the shower instead of _Ramblin'  
Man_ had been crucial to the outcome of the day. Resenting every instant,  
Jim detached himself from Blair and sat up, panting.

"Jim, you're not zoning on me _now_, are you?"

"Just give me a minute," he muttered. He closed his eyes, but by that  
time, it was too late; Blair's image was burned into his mind. There was  
nothing to do then but open his eyes. Blair lay sprawled on the bed, knees  
slightly drawn up, one arm thrown over his forehead. Glazed eyes, third-degree  
whisker burn, terrifying hair... at last Jim could take credit for the  
complete wreck that was his sweet baby. Add to that the heat that poured  
from Blair in waves and a scent so overwhelming it became a _taste_  
to Jim, and Monday or not, Jim was guaranteed wet dreams for the rest of  
his life. Blair jacked himself lazily, his hips coming ever-so-slightly  
off the bed with every pull.

"Stop that."

"Kiss me."

Jim put a hand over his heart. "I think my arm's getting numb."

"Come on," he coaxed. "I'm getting bored now."

"I'll start keeping magazines up here for you."

"Jim..."

"Blair..."

"Please?"

The detective gripped Blair at shoulder and hip, rolling him onto his  
stomach. Though Jim's blanket had already left bedding scars on Blair's  
skin, it in no way lessened the overall effect of the view. Blair pillowed  
his head on his arms, looking sideways at Jim through a curtain of hair  
and clearly doing his best not to laugh.

"What?" Jim demanded.

"It's--"

"Sandburg," he warned.

"I just didn't expect you to be all gruff in bed, too, that's all."

Jim settled between Blair's thighs once again, this time laying himself  
along the length of his guide's back without apology. "No ceremony, no  
preamble," he muttered, shoving Blair's hair aside to lick his neck. "Just  
a little of the old rumpy-pumpy and you go back downstairs to get loaded,  
listen to some bad Sade songs and have a good cry, is that it?"

"Hey, I don't listen to Sade," he said indignantly.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, kissing his way down his guide's back. "That  
wasn't fair of me."

Blair squirmed beneath him, rubbing his ass against Jim's cock, and  
his own cock against the mattress. "And I don't--" he broke off on a gasp.

"What, Chief?"

"I don't want to talk about cheesy eighties music, man," he moaned.  
"Not right now. Not _ever_."

"So who's talking?"

"You-- ohh... _Jim..._" Jim smiled, nuzzling his guide between  
his shoulder blades. Hot and slick, his fingers met with very little resistance  
as they prepared Blair to receive him. Whether testament to Blair's Herculean  
sex life or his comfort level with his partner, Jim didn't care. He only  
wanted to get inside, and to hell with anyone who'd been there before.

"Blair."

"...jim..." he whimpered.

"Blair, _listen_. Whatever happens after this--"

"I'll always be your little love monkey?"

Jim snorted. "No, Sandburg," he muttered. "Well, yeah, but more than  
that, I--"

"Jim, I swear to god, if you say your heart will go on, it's gonna totally  
trash my mood, man." He sank his teeth into Blair's neck and entered him  
with one smooth thrust. Blair threw his head back, bucking hard. "Oh, _yeah..._"

Bracing himself against the bed with one hand, Jim inched the other  
beneath his guide and began a slow, fumbling rhythm with both hand and  
cock. Streaks of near-painful pleasure shot through Jim, plunging him into  
almost a fugue state, everything he knew redefined sexually. Flashes of  
memory came to him at odd intervals, a hand turning a page, a private smile,  
a violent argument. Everything was a turn-on to him now, even the demolished  
bathroom, even the look on Blair's face when he'd seen Jim seeing him with  
Argent. Everything.

He thrust harder, surer now that Blair was ready for him, eager. The  
hand was reclaimed so he could brace himself easily, crushing his guide  
into the mattress so he could move faster, faster. Blair howled beneath  
him, trying (and failing) to get enough leverage to counter-thrust. "Please,"  
he gasped. "_Please_."

It was a reflection of Jim's own singular remaining thought. _Please,  
please, don't let this be the only time, please, please..._ Blair's  
cries broke on a harsh, keening breath, his internal muscles closing tightly  
around Jim's cock, squeezing him. His own orgasm hit him then, a hot, heady  
wave of pleasure that caved in his arms, causing a welcome collapse on  
top of his guide.

Jim kissed Blair's neck weakly, his hips still thrusting minutely, greedily.  
"Blair," he murmured.

"Jim, no offense, man, but you're dead weight right now."

"Sorry," he said, rolling to his back. Blair lay where he'd fallen,  
face-down, eyes closed, barely even breathing. "Chief, you okay?"

"Mm. Really, _really_ okay."

Jim grinned, stretching hugely. "You want something to drink?"

"If I do, do I have to go and get it?"

"I'm trying real hard not to be smug, here, Sandburg, and you're not  
helping." He mumbled indistinctly into Jim's pillow. "What?"

"I _said_, I never thought you'd be the one to finally take the  
ants out of my pants."

"That's more like it," said Jim, kissing Blair's shoulder before he  
got out of bed. "What do you want, papaya juice?"

"Can I have apple juice?"

"You can have anything you want."

Blair opened one eye. "Yeah, well, you better go now, because this is  
starting to get cute or something."

Jim left. By the time he returned with the juice, Blair was asleep.  
Sighing pitifully, Jim drank both glasses and climbed into bed beside him.  
As soon as Jim had settled into a comfortable spot, Blair curled himself  
around him, making contented noises.

_Too fucking cute. Oh well. Nobody has to know_.  


*** *** ***

####   
TUESDAY

  
"Jim! Goddamn it, wake up!"

He came to gradually, blinking owlishly at the unexpected light beating  
at him from all sides. Blair knelt on the bed beside him, shaking him.  
"Cut it out, Sandburg, Jesus."

"You're awake?"

"No, Sandburg, this is all part of an elaborate dream sequence that--"

"You don't have time for that now. _Get up_."

"What time is it?"

"Eleven thirty, Jim," he said tightly. "We slept in to eleven thirty."

Jim squinted at the clock. "Why didn't my alarm go off?"

"You're the detective, Jim. Get up!"

"Why didn't somebody phone?" Blair looked away guiltily. "What?"

"They, uh, they did," he said. "I sort of turned the ringer off. And,  
uh, turned off your cell. And... my... cell."

"Because..."

"Well, really, if you want me to go into detail, it's not so much that  
I turned them off as I forgot to turn them back on, but I realize that's  
not going to be much of a comfort to you now, this being, uh, eleven thirty-four  
and everything..."

"Why didn't anybody stop by to check on us?" he demanded.

"They did," he said, shame-faced. "Simon, uh..."

"Simon _what?_"

"He sort of slid a blank employee termination form under the door. But  
he didn't sign it, Jim, that's something, right?"

"Goddamned cocksucking motherfucking son of a _bitch_," he snarled,  
rolling out of bed. He was about to leap down the stairs when he finally  
took a look at Blair. "Why are you naked?"

Blair paled. "Aw, Christ Jim, you told me you--"

Jim reached him in two steps, gripping his shoulders tightly. "What  
day is it today?"

His guide regarded him with wide, frightened eyes. "Uh, Saint Immacolata  
of the Sacred Pop Tarts?"

Jim blinked. "...What?"

"I'm just guessing, here, man. Help me out, all right? We slept together  
last night, and now you're, like, freaking out, which is kind of making  
me freak out, okay? I don't _need_ this. I--"

"_Sandburg_."

"Jim?"

"What... We slept together?"

He must have looked as pleasantly surprised as he felt, because Blair  
grinned hugely at this when anyone else would have been looking for a chainsaw.  
"Yeah, man."

"What day is it?"

"Jim, are you feeling--"

"Just humor me, Chief. Answer the question."

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday?"

"Tuesday."

"What time do you think Simon came by?" he asked, backing Blair toward  
the bed.

"I don't know. The last message was around nine thirty, though, so..."

"So another half an hour isn't going to make a big difference?" Blair  
fell on his back, legs already spread before Jim climbed on top of him.

"He gave you a... termination form... oh..."

"He didn't sign it," said Jim, kissing him hotly.

"He didn't... _Jim_."


End file.
